


Optional

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Blood, Character Death, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, M/M, Major Character Injury, No Plot/Plotless, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-13
Updated: 2015-11-13
Packaged: 2018-04-29 01:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5110691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"By the time Byakuran finds Irie, it’s already too late." Byakuran doesn't give Irie a choice but Irie doesn't obey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Optional

By the time Byakuran finds Irie, it’s already too late.

He didn’t rush on his way across the battlefield. He had no reason to; it’s not as if he requires medical attention any more than he has the Sun flames that would give him the ability to offer personal help to those who need immediate assistance. So he takes his time wandering across the field and considering the movement of those on it with more vague attention than true interest, picking his way in the direction of the main headquarters with some half-formed thought of coordinating with the rest of the team, of draping himself over the back of Irie’s chair and ruffling red curls with an exhale before the other knows he’s there. He’s smiling to think of it, flexing his fingers in anticipation of the heat of Irie’s skin, when he sees that blood-bright color in the hair of one of the forms collapsed on the field.

He doesn’t feel concern. There’s no reason to be concerned, Byakuran knows, even if Irie’s presence is unexpected, is a surprise like those he encounters with more and more regularity in this timeline. He’s smiling with it, entertained by the sparkle of a novel experience, when he drops to a knee and reaches for Irie’s shoulder.

“Sho-chan,” he says, drawling the name into pieces on his tongue. “Wake up, Sho-chan.”

Irie makes a noise, a faint, pained sound; it doesn’t make sense, given the minimal pressure Byakuran is exerting on his shoulder. Byakuran looks down, takes in the red staining the bottom half of Irie’s shirt and sticky on his hands, and as Irie puts voice to “Byakuran?” he’s talking over him, a chiding tone sliding into the edge of his words.

“What are doing out of headquarters?” Byakuran shifts his weight, moves to sit on the ground properly instead of balancing on one knee. When he reaches for Irie this time it’s deliberate, a hand fitting under his head, into his hair, another bracing at his shoulder. “You’ll get hurt if you’re out on the field.”

“Yeah,” Irie says, sounding faintly petulant, adopting the irritated whine Byakuran remembers from the future, the one that comes just before the breaking point of the other’s temper. “I  _know_.”

“Silly Sho-chan,” Byakuran sighs, and pulls, dragging Irie sideways towards him while he’s still speaking. Irie shudders, starts a wail of pain that cuts itself off with a lack of breath, but then Byakuran has Irie’s head in his lap and can let him gasp for air while he slides his hand down towards the sodden fabric clinging to Irie’s body. “You should listen to me more.” Irie’s still choking for air, the effort of his breathing rendering speech an impossibility; Byakuran looks away from his face for a moment, peels the weight of his shirt up and off damp skin to see the extent of the damage.

“Wow,” he says, impressed despite himself. His fingers ghost across torn skin, skim just shy of the spill of color turning Irie’s skin the shade of his hair. “You really hurt yourself this time.” He draws away, reaches out to dip his fingers into Irie’s hair instead, to trail his hand through color that catches but doesn’t cling to his skin.

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Irie manages, choking on the words; he reaches up, fingers dragging desperately over Byakuran’s shirt before he manages a fist on the fabric. Byakuran can feel the wet on Irie’s hand soaking into the cloth. “It’s not like I  _meant_  to get myself killed.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Sho-chan,” Byakuran tells him, curling his hand into a fist, drawing Irie’s head back so he can see the other’s face, can see the way he’s squeezing his eyes shut against the pain and the tremor of strain along the line of his mouth. “You’re not going to die from this.”

Irie laughs, a faint, husky note of amusement so sincere it breaks past the audible agony in his throat. “I can’t feel my legs.” He takes a breath, chokes on the air; there’s damp at his eyes, moisture staining the shadow of his lashes into an ink-dark smear. “I’m pretty sure I’m finished, Byakuran.”

“No,” Byakuran says, slow, so Irie will hear him, careful, so he can let the sound go heavy with command. “You’re not.” He smooths his fingers through Irie’s hair, pushes the curls back from his face as Irie takes a breath that sounds like a sob, as Irie’s fingers twist into the edge of Byakuran’s shirt like he’s holding himself in place. “You’re not allowed to.”

“What?” Irie opens his eyes at that, twists his head a half-inch to gaze up at Byakuran. His eyes are bright behind the cover of his glasses, the color of them washed clean and glowing by the tears that have trickled across his skin to dampen Byakuran’s clothes. His smile is sharp, a little bit frantic; when he laughs it’s a wet cough more than it is pleasure. “You’re not going to  _let_  me die?”

“No.” Byakuran fists his hand into Irie’s hair, leans in close over him; he can feel the strain of the angle collect along his spine, his body protesting as he curls in close like iron responding to the magnet that is the green of Irie’s eyes. “No, I’m not.” He’s calm, he’s smiling; Irie’s watching his mouth, the slow flutter of his eyelashes tracking the pattern of Byakuran’s lips on the words. “You’re going to stay with me.”

Irie’s lips quirk, turn up at the corners for a moment; the expression turns his eyes soft, eases the lines of pain in his face into something warm and tender for a minute. “Because you say so?”

“That’s right,” Byakuran says, purring now that Irie understands. He leans in close, closer still, lets his forehead bump against Irie’s and listens to the other gasp for air off the shape of his lips. “You’ll be fine.”

“Byakuran,” Irie says, and he’s dragging at Byakuran’s shirt, his hand shaking so badly Byakuran can feel the motion hum up the taut-stretched fabric. “I can’t...I can’t--” He sucks in an inhale, hard, choking on the air like he’s forgotten how to breathe, and Byakuran frowns, braces his hand against the back of Irie’s head to steady the way he’s trembling through his whole body.

“Ssh,” he says, a rumble of command under his voice. “Quiet, Sho-chan.”

“Byaku--” Irie starts, voice cracking into open terror in his throat, and he convulses, the motion so strong it breaks even Byakuran’s steady grip on him. When he coughs his lips go dark and wet with red.

“You’ll be fine,” Byakuran says again, warm to heat the chill of Irie’s skin, slow to be understood past the rasp of desperate breathing. When he presses his mouth to Irie’s his lips catch iron, his tongue fills with metallic bite; he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t loosen his hold, just grips the back of Irie’s head and holds him against Byakuran’s mouth until the tremors stop, and Irie’s hold loosens, and he goes quiet and still in Byakuran’s arms.

Irie’s cold by the time anyone tries to come to them. Byakuran isn’t counting seconds, isn’t watching his surroundings; he’s trailing his fingers through red hair instead, watching the dark of Irie’s lashes against pale cheeks, tasting the metal of blood on his tongue.

“Byakuran?” It’s a voice he knew, once, when he would have bothered to identify the speaker; he could recognize it, if he cared to, if he cared about anything at all anymore.

“I’ve decided,” he says without looking up, without looking away from the pattern his fingers make in Irie’s soft hair, on Irie’s cold skin. “I don’t want to play this game anymore.”


End file.
